Regarding Sundays in April
by woodbox
Summary: He's nothing like that mangled hunk of metal. Zemyx


**Regarding Sundays in April**

Some people have no dignity. Others have no respect.

Zexion had no tolerance for these sorts of people. He worked as a curator for Destiny Islands Museum of Art, and he loved his job. His employers would describe him as "a private, intelligent sort of man. He's a very diligent worker," and they tended to smile at him when they passed, and give him raises to make sure he didn't move away to more populated cities with bigger art museums, like Hollow Bastion and Twilight Town.

The Destiny Islands Museum of Art had an entry fee of twenty munny, but it was open free from six in the morning until one in the afternoon on the first Sunday of every month. Sometimes, these Sundays were busy, and the broke freaks crawled out from under their rocks and loitered around taking pictures or ooh-ing and ahh-ing over that one particular sculpture on the second level. Zexion was used to dealing with these sorts of people—what with their ridiculous clothes and PDA habits and a complete disregard for the hundreds of signs that clearly asked (commanded):

DO NOT TOUCH THE ART.

But, on one particular Sunday, the sixth of April, he was presented with a veritable _godsend_. The majority of the freaks were studying for their Destiny Islands College of Art and Design finals, and there were considerably less people mulling about the five stories that composed the museum. In fact, the security guard had reported, when Zexion had wondered morosely into his walkie-talkie if that man with the blue hair had come in, that there had only been one visitor so far today.

After consulting with Cid, the surveillance man, he mounted the steps to the third level. The third level was something Zexion called the "Junk Squat." The art showcased there was modern art, completely legit to some people, but Zexion was more of a Van Gogh sort of guy. So when he saw the man sitting on the simple bench, staring at the mangled hunk of metal that some dip-wad had had the brass to call art, he was more than inclined to roll his eyes.

The man had in earphones, white ones, from an iPod, and was unconsciously bobbing his head. His jeans were frayed from dragging—Zexion could relate, all of his pants were too long—and his jacket spoke volumes of heartbreak, snot, and something that looked suspiciously like Cheetos-dust. He was wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed "I LOVE MY SITAR." His hair looked like an indecisive monkey that loved both punk fashion and 80's hair bands had cut it. A freak. Zexion groaned inwardly.

And then he missed a step.

His mother had lectured him fiercely the first time he'd gotten his hair cut in that style. After the first two years, she'd been reduced to small I-told-you-so's. Now, five years later, she merely lamented that she was being ignored with complaints and whiny pseudo-aphorisms.

_"I can never see your eyes, baby," _and_ "You're going to end up somewhere strange if you don't look up."_

Zexion would not tell her for another year how right she was.

The man had looked up now, and was coming to help a face-down Zexion.

"You should be more careful on stairs," he said. His voice was strained, and Zexion ignored the fact that he'd noticed the man's puffy eyes.

"Yes," he agreed stiffly. The other man nodded, smiled in a pained sort of way, and went to sit back down.

There were five minutes of vastly uncomfortable silence in which Zexion stood around looking knowledgeable and the man gazed rather sadly at the crude sculpture.

"Do you know what inspired the artist of this one?" he asked, indicating the twisted metal sculpture.

"Free time, probably," Zexion said in an honest admittance of his opinion. The man laughed. Zexion frowned a little less severely.

"What do you think of it?" He was taking out the ear-buds and turning off the iPod.

Zexion was somewhat hesitant."…It's terrible. It doesn't qualify as art."

"That's pretty harsh…Zexion," he chided, reading Zexion's shiny silver name tag.

"The welder probably had some left-over metal and decided to melt it all together. It follows no theme and the motion is disjointed. Even the angles are poorly executed," he added, feeling that this was a good time to show off his powerful critical eye.

Naminé, the curator for the modern arts, was off today for her sister's wedding. She loved the modern arts floors, and was able to sing their praises to any person of any opinion. If the girl had a talent, it was geniality. She never offended anyone.

Zexion was not so lucky in his social endeavors. The man he was speaking to was starting to cry.

"Xigbar—my friend—he used to tell me I was like this piece," the man said between sniffles. "That both of us were angular and ridiculous, but we were soft, and told a tale of passion."

Zexion regarded him sadly. "I'm sorry."

"Huh?" the man wiped at his eyes. "H-how did you know?"

Zexion shook his head. There had to be more visitors now, and he could get in trouble with the boss if he neglected his own floor. Those pieces were far more valuable, anyway. If something were to happen to, say, a Manet while he was talking with this man, his ass would be on the line. He would probably get fired. And banned permanently from the museum.

"I'm Demyx, by the way."

Zexion decided that the art would be okay on its own for another ten minutes or so. He grasped Demyx's hand in a handshake.

"Who's this Xigbar character?"

Demyx clutched at his jeans and looked upwards to blink, presumably to keep from crying any more. "He, uh."

"Boyfriend?" Zexion ventured. Demyx looked about as straight as Zexion felt, and that was reaching the negatives.

"He dumped me last night," Demyx said softly. He hadn't really known why he'd come to the museum, other than a vague notion that he wanted to have a serious discussion with his metal counterpart, but now he was starting to wonder. Maybe he was meant to talk to Zexion. The man was confident, but still cute, and Demyx forced himself to stop thinking _right there_. He was so not going to rebound. Especially not on poor, adorable working men at high-class museums. No. No way. "He was always so much smarter than me, and he got sick of my shit, so…"

The silence he trailed into lasted for a few awkward minutes.

Zexion walked over and sat down next to him on the bench. "You're wrong," he said sternly, "He couldn't have been very smart at all."

Demyx was about to launch into an obsessive rant about just how awesome Xigbar was, but he stopped short when Zexion met his eyes.

"You've got nothing in common with that _thing_."

"Yeah?" Demyx whispered.

Zexion attempted a smile. "Yeah. You're real art."

Some people had no dignity. Others had no respect.

Zexion found himself rather undignified and lacking in self-respect as he let Demyx kiss him.

But that's not to say he didn't like it.

* * *

A/N: 8D;;; I have no confidence in my writing ability. Please tell me what you think.


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